Once He Loves (Medieval 3)

Time to think of that later. Just now it was clear that there was something very wrong with the lady Briar, and Ivo must do his best to discover what it was.

“Demoiselle,” he said gently, “do not grieve. Whatever saddens you so, I will help you to overcome it.”

He meant it, more than he had ever meant anything in his life, but she shook her head and her mouth turned down.

“You cannot,” she said. “No one can. I am truly lost.”

“No, angel, you are not lost. I have found you and you are not lost.” He bent and kissed her lips, tasting the salt of her tears.

Slowly she responded, her lips opening on a sigh, the heat coursing through her. He deepened the kiss; he could not help it. Her body pressed against him and he groaned, his hand sliding down her soft belly to the juncture of her thighs. In response, her arms tightened around his waist, drawing him closer. He moved over her, the head of his manhood probing her entrance.

“You are not lost,” he whispered again, running quick hot kisses across her breasts, before drawing her nipple deep into his mouth.

She arched with a moan of sheer pleasure. The tears were still wet on her cheeks, but her pain had been forgotten, or at least put aside, by her need for him. Ivo looked down at her in wonder, amazed he had turned her so easily from agony to ecstasy. With a practiced thrust, he entered her, smoothly and fully.

Her eyes opened wide.

“Briar,” he murmured, and smiled.

Dazed, she smiled back at him, gasping as he thrust again, deeper this time, but slowly, carefully. Her fingers crept up his arms, clinging to him as his muscles shifted and tightened, feeling the tension in him as he held himself back, moving so tenderly, so gently.

Time stood still, as he drowned in her eyes.

And then passion caught them unawares, and she cried out, her mouth hot against his throat as his hips pumped harder and faster, seeking oblivion. Afterward, he wrapped his arms about her, tucking her safely to his side, as the tremors eased.

The hound barked. The child cried. “Briar! Sweet Jesu, she is hurt!” The boy reached the little girl first, bending to help her back onto her uncertain feet. Blood trickled down one side of her plump, baby face, mingling with hot, angry tears. The child gazed up at him with a trembling lip, hazel eyes deep and solemn. And in that instant Ivo, himself only nine years old, lost his heart.

The memory was there, fully formed in his head. Amazed, Ivo stared down at the sated woman in his arms.

“Briar,” he breathed. “’Tis Briar.”

It was as if her name in his mouth pulled her from her voluptuous exhaustion. Briar’s dark lashes lifted, her hazel eyes opened very wide. She stared at him blankly, and then with a small scream, she sat up. A knee in his side, an elbow in his chest, and she had launched herself across the bed, away from him, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth as if he were foul.

“Go, go!” she screamed, and pointed to the door. She dragged herself to the very end of the bed, her body trembling, her face still swollen and tear-streaked. “I do not want you to touch me again! I…I cannot think when you touch me. Go now! And never return, Ivo de Vessey. Never!”

Ivo hesitated. He had been about to tell her what he had remembered, but short of holding her physically captive…And

he did not think she would look upon him kindly if he pinned her down and shouted at her. Nay, it was plain she was not to be reasoned with, not now, not in this state. Whatever had upset her, it was not something she would confide to him, not tonight.

Now that Ivo knew who she was, there was time to consider. Aye, he must think hard on this before he took any further steps. Better that he go, as she demanded. He would think on what he had learned, and resume this business later. Besides, Sweyn had said they were wanted, and Ivo knew he had neglected his duty as long as he dared.

With a little shrug, he began to dress, hastily pulling up his breeches and slipping his shirt and tunic over his head. All the while she crouched upon the bed, shaking, her face turned so far from him that he could see the strained cords of her neck. As if the sight of him was acutely painful to her. Or repulsive.

Ivo was not insulted. He knew she had felt no such thing earlier. She had wanted him; she had enjoyed what he did to her. He had felt her body tremble in release, had tasted her desire. He knew it to the marrow of his bones. Aye, she had wanted him. Whatever was wrong now was not because of that. For some inexplicable reason she had imagined him to be Radulf—he remembered now that she had not asked him for his name. Why was his being Radulf so important to her? He did not believe she was the sort to be fascinated by a man because of his wealth and power, the sort who would give herself to a man just for what he could give her materially.

Mayhap he was being a fool for trusting a woman he did not know, except for some childhood memory…And yet, he could not, would not, let her go. He remembered again the way she had looked up at him as he took her, the trusting, dreaming expression in her eyes. She had not held back; there had been no deceit in her desire for him, whatever her lips might say. And she had let him take her that last time, even when she knew he was not Radulf.

Aye, there was much here to think on.

She had given him back his heart—for better or worse, he did not know yet. Nay, he would not desert her now, just as he had not deserted her on that long ago day when she received her scar. His decision was made, burnt into his flesh, like the remembrance of her touch.

“Farewell, demoiselle.” He turned to her at last, fully dressed, and strapped his sword about his hips. The two green stones gleamed dully in the sputtering candlelight; they were the eyes of the snarling creature, half beast and half bird, that had been fashioned into the hilt. A griffin. It was his family emblem, and he had received and worn it with great pride when he became a knight.

Long ago, long gone.

She may have brought his heart back to life, but she could not give Ivo back that burning sense of self-worth and pride he had felt when he was made a knight. Could she?

Briar had not answered his farewell. Instead she continued to tremble against the bed where they had just made love. He watched her a moment more, and his newly revived heart ached for her. You are mine, now. The words were on the tip of his tongue, but Ivo was too wise to speak them. Women were strange creatures, and sometimes ’twas best just to leave them be.